


wayfaring stranger

by rkvian



Series: Honey Whiskey [3]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: 31 Days of Apex (Apex Legends), 31 Days of Miraith, Badass Mirage, Blood and Violence, F/M, Mercy - Freeform, No rose-colored glasses for the Apex Games, Revenge Feels Empty, idk whether to tag Major Character Death or not but warning anyway, which unfortunately sounds like it doesn't happen often
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25546264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rkvian/pseuds/rkvian
Summary: There are Games that start right. That wasn’t the case this time.
Relationships: Mirage | Elliott Witt/Wraith | Renee Blasey, minor Octane | Octavio Silva/Wattson | Natalie Paquette
Series: Honey Whiskey [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811650
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	wayfaring stranger

**Author's Note:**

> written to Johnny Cash's Wayfaring Stranger, and Shawn James's songs The Guardian and Through the Valley
> 
> This is inspired by Day 03: Mercy

There are Games that start right.

Mirage have had Games where he landed with upper tier guns, sufficient ammo, body shields, and consumables. Sometimes he lands with just guns and ammos, or a purple shield and his fists, or his fists and consumables—and he and his squad still find ways to either win against the teams that land with them or simply survive. These were high-risk high-reward drops that usually end with them being Champions.

That wasn’t the case this time. 

He opened his first loot bin in the middle of the Refinery, and got a 2x Bruiser, a white bag, and a white standard stock. He went to the next loot bin and got a sniper scope, a precision choke, and two holo scopes. 

“ _Eh, I’m getting shot!_ ” Gibraltar’s voice sounded through the communicator.

Gunfire broke somewhere outside the infrastructure, and Mirage sped across the train track. The first bin had an extended light mag, an Hcog—not even a single helmet—and the last had 3x Hcog, 1x Digital Threat, and a motherfucking _shotgun bolt_. If it was possible to bash one at an enemy’s face and deal damage then—

Something whizzed in the air and hit him at the back of his right thigh.

The effect was immediate. He drew a sharp breath, eyes widening as the entirety of his leg lost its feeling. His body buckled under his weight and his knee slammed against the bottom part of the bin. The impact was bruising, but there was no clap of pain for it yet.

“I’m down.” He yelped into the communicator, dragging himself to the side. “Not injured—well—very much alive, but I can’t move my—”

“ _It’s Fortessa_.” Wraith answered back, “ _She’s on the East balcony_.”

Gibraltar’s voice echoed from his ear to somewhere across the room, “ _There’s another team, brothas. I think_.” 

Mirage peeked at the East balcony, and sure enough, the Stunning Debilitator, a red-haired woman in stark white pea coat, was standing on the balcony aiming a sniper at him. He risked a decoy just to test her, and her Longbow’s bullet echoed immediately, crashing into the train track when he pulled back.

He let out a humorless huff, “Think she really wants to kill me.”

" _Her darts only last for half a minute."_ The Skirmisher paused, and Mirage met her eyes across the distance. “ _If you can get to the stairs, I can cover you. Gib, can—_ ”

“ _Not right now_.” The sound of energy ammo burst from somewhere to their East. “ _Got two on me_.”

Mirage glanced and the Fortress was there on the opposite outer corridor. His shield was already broken and he’s bleeding from above his right eye dripping down his cheek but he hasn’t said anything about it. The Trickster hoped he had a weapon, even a Mozambique to help with but no. The best he can do right now was to unite with them so they can cover him when he runs in for a fist fight.

Inhaling deeply, he bolted from his cover dragging his half-useless right limb. Fortressa tracked his movement, but Wraith’s Alternator bullets echoed across the space, hastily pushing the woman into cover. It granted him enough time to brace the corridor to an empty balcony, to Wraith already aiding Gibraltar by the crates at the base of the stairs.

“Hey,” He greeted jovially, sliding next to her. “what’s your weapons? You want an extended mag? A 4x-6x scope? A 1x Hcog—”

Wraith threw him a get serious look, “You didn’t get anything?”

“No,” He laughed, “but at least I got a purple shotgun bolt and a choke, am I right?”

Without glancing, she unclasped a pistol from her gun belt and offered it hilt first. “Here.” 

“Really?” Mirage raised an eyebrow at the Wingman. 

“You’re better at it.”

He pressed a hand to his chest, “I’m so, so touched.”

“ _Other team’s a total goblin_.” Gibraltar snorted through the com, “ _Saw one of them just throwing away stacks of heavy ammos earlier, and I ain’t even got a lot on me Spitfire right now, brothas._ ”

“We can reset.” Wraith suggested, “I don’t have my Ultimate yet but we can cover you long enough to escape to the side door.”

“ _Negative brotha, they’re movin’ in an’ can follow me there_.”

“How about towards us?" Mirage suggested, “My decoys are ready, I can try to confuse them.”

"Not a bad idea." The Skirmisher added, "We're harder to take down if we leave as a group.”

“Sounds mad,” The Fortress barked a mad laugh, “but we got no choice.” 

Mirage cast his Ultimate, sending his decoys around moving to different directions. Several of it were shot instantly, and he and Wraith popped out of their cover just as Gibraltar broke into a sprint, strafing and sliding towards them. The Trickster's bullet hit two people with blue shields—blue shields and he never got any? Even a white?—but it didn’t matter because damn it.

The plan actually _worked._

He laughed at the craziness of it, and based on Gibraltar and Wraith’s grins, they didn’t expect the stupid risk to work out in their favor either. But it did, and even if it’s not an adrenaline-crazed early game clutch, they had this stupid moment.

“Come on.” The Fortress shouted as he passed by the Trickster and the Skirmisher to the room next to the stairs. The two of them bolted after their friend. “We can take this door, check if the Epicenter is looted and we can co—”

The sound of a Peacekeeper went off, and Gibraltar’s body blasted a few feet away from where he was, crashing audibly to the crates inside. 

Both he and Wraith were on instant alert. Mirage’s heart leapt at the sight of it but there was no time for words. He raised his pistol, his senses slinking between the fight or flight limbo where he wanted to stand the ground but they’re in the worst situation possible. Push forward? Reposition to the stairs?

Whatever he was thinking didn’t matter.

A dart pierced the back of his right leg and his left shoulder, and panic seeped into his system. He opened his mouth to warn Wraith, except his body completely paralyzed before he can even put a hand against the wall to support his weight. He slumped at the doorway, banging his chin and scruffing his beard on the descent to the floor. 

“Wraith, the other team’s—”

He craned his head just in time to see the Skirmisher open fire at the Scruffy Bearded man in the room. The enemy’s purple shield shattered before he could cock his gun. Wraith snarled a word underneath her breath, evading the pellets while she reloaded. She raised her SMG and emptied her last magazine, driving Scruffy Beard to howl at the spread of bullets hitting him across the torso. He swayed on his steps and the Skirmisher sent her kunai into his chest, lodging just beneath his clavicle.

She charged in to finish her opponent, until the door opened to two women open spraying a Flatline and an RE-45 into the room.

It did no damage on Scruffy Beard, protected by the system’s anti-friendly fire but Mirage watched in horror as the brunt of it hit Wraith. She hissed in pain, then somewhere between a gasp and a yelp, flinching backwards and instinctively clutching the bullet wounds. Scruffy Beard raised his Peacekeeper and that was all it took for him to shout.

“Phase out.”

Wraith’s head whipped towards him at the words, and he knew exactly what she thought about that moment: they’re fucking screwed. If she phased, she’ll leave them behind to die. But they had a rule. If the situation’s turned against them and there’s no chance they can win, the member with the most health had the responsibility to stay alive and then return for their banner. If that’s not possible, they have to survive as long as they can to get a higher placement.

That’s what the Apex Game is about, isn't it? That’s what he hoped she would do.

She did.

The Skirmisher clenched her left fist except before she can shift entirely into the Void, a dart flew into the room, hitting her on the thigh. She winced, and then cried out at the shells that went straight at her. The entirety of her right body flew back from the impact, her head bouncing off the wall, and she slumped to the ground.

“Champion team? What a joke.”

“Big words coming from…” Mirage didn’t feel Fortessa or her entourage step on him, just that they did to enter the room. She walked further in, resting her Longbow against her shoulder and cocking her hips to stare at Wraith. The Debilitator flashed a twisted smile at Scruffy Beard, and he finished, "...you."

Chill washed throughout his body, prickling goosebumps from the back of his neck to his shoulders. The incredulity was gone the next blink, replaced by hot searing rage. He forced the muscles in his body to move at the realization.

They’re _working_ together.

“I thought it would take more.” Fortessa hummed, “You know, from the reputation.”

“Yeah, this is Wraith isn’t it?” There’s a shuffle of footstep from the rest of their squad, “And this one is Gibraltar.”

“Don’t touch them,” Scruffy Beard said in a crisp Scottish accent. He dislodged Wraith's kunai and discarded it on the floor, reaching for a Medkit in his pocket. “I want them to bleed out.”

“What about the other one?”

“Ignore him. He's stunned anyway.”

“Ooh,” Said one female voice, “Think we can rob Gibraltar? I've always wanted a gun shield."

“It’s ours now.” The Dibilitator’s team mate nodded, “Finders keepers and all that.”

“I’m more interested in the Skirmisher's tech." Fortessa stated, "I know a few business men that would be clamoring to have it.”

“What if it’s internally wired?”

“Then we cut her arm off and sell it whole.”

“Don’t you—" Mirage can barely breathe through the fury coursing through his veins. "— _fucking_ dare.” Six heads whipped at him but they continued the casual conversation like he wasn't there. He caught bits and pieces of the plan. They've been hunted down specifically from drop out of a dare from their Social Media followers and while it was far from the first time multiple teams were gunning for them, it's the first two teamed up to do it. It worked. That's why anger, an emotion he didn't often listened to on the battlefield, was rearing wildly in his guts, ugly and uninhibited.

He could have performed better, and his team could have taken down all of them if th—

The sound of Wraith’s humorless chuckle rose in the room. Whatever pompous look Fortessa had on her face crumpled into a glare, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“What are you laughing at, _cunt?_ ”

“I’m laughing at you, _cunt_.” The Skirmisher croaked. She twisted her body, pushing on her left elbow to sit up. She dragged a long inhale through clenched teeth, staring back into the woman’s eyes.

“What did you call me?” Fortessa drew her Wingman, readying it.

“What did _you_ call _me?”_ Wraith mocked.

“She’s going into shock.” The Flatline woman mused, nudging the one with RE-45. “See?”

“I would too if I lost an arm like that.” 

Scruffy Beard walked towards Wraith. He knelt by the Skirmisher’s leg, and Wraith pulled away glaring at him. He glanced at Fortessa, “What do you want to do?”

“Holy shit.” Mirage barked a mad laugh of his own, hoping it would take away the attention. “Built like an ox and you ain’t able to think for yourself. What happened? All muscles, no brain?”

All six people finally threw a glare at him. The closest one, a short black-haired man set his neon-green boot on the side of his face, stepping harder and clicking his tongue cockily. “Won’t be talking shit if I were you.”

“What,” He scoffed, “like you have the right to?”

His nose cracked at the hard kick, and he coughed instinctively at the ruptured vessels. "You know why you're not dead yet?" He sneered, "Because you're not a threat. You're lucky our fans like you for the way you look because as a fighter, you sure as hell aren't good enough."

The words stung because he knew it was true.

He could have done better, he could have contributed more. 

But that didn't mean he would let it end like this.

When Neon boots raised his foot to attack him again, Mirage aimed his Wingman at his kneecap and shot. It's quiet between the split second, his enemy's mouth falling open while his brain caught up on the injury. Once it did, he flailed his arms to catch his balance, crying like a little bitch. The next moment, he pushed to his feet and pulled himself from the door way, avoiding the initial burst of gunfire from the five people shouting in alarm inside the room. He reared back and shot Neon once in the chest, two to the head, shattering his skull and sending him tumbling back, dead.

There were scream of surprise and rage, but Wraith's voice cut hoarsely through the communicator.

“ _Run_.”

“I’m not going to—to just leave you there wh—"

“ _We have a rule_.”

Escape, live, retrieve the banners if you can.

He exhaled harshly thinking, _fine. Okay, fine. They have a rule._ Mirage shot out of the corridor exit, his boots spraying dirt and snow everywhere as he scrambled to get to the balloon before anyone caught up to his flimsy plan.

“ _What are you idiots doing? Get him!_ ”

“ _But he’s just one—,", "You said—_ ”

“ _Get the damn kill!_ ”

Gibraltar is dead. Wraith is bleeding out.

He’s running like a fucking coward. 

Mirage shook his head, forcing himself to return to the task at hand. It’s on him to survive now. Get equipment, retrieve their banners, respawn. He didn’t stop moving forward, even when a Wingman went off, and Wraith's name joined the kill feed.

_Survive, survive, survive._

It was the only word in his head. He reached the redeploy balloon about to leave, when he spotted another blue fucking shield unused at the bin next to it. The RNG is insane in this hellhole of a map. He had nothing but attachment and those two teams got everything they needed and more. The Trickster sprinted to equip it and found the heap of heavy ammo Gibraltar was talking about. It was hidden behind the bin, along with shield cells and a shield battery.

_Survive, Elliott._

His brain pounded, but he looked back to the Refinery and thought:

_Kill them all._

“I found him!”

Mirage instinctively flicked a Wingman shot at Fortessa’s other team mate, dyed-blue haired guy. His bullet sheared the enemy's shield but instead of running for cover, his opponent primed his havoc. The Trickster landed another shot and broke Blue Hair's shield the same moment the energy ammo began its barrage at him and attempted to track his movement. He was able to dodge fairly well, when a newcomer's Flatline singed his shield, splintering it before he was able to sink around the crate for cover.

Mirage reached for a cell and charged, waiting to see if they would pursue immediately.

"How can you miss all that shot?"

"Havoc's recoil is difficult to control." A snort, "Let's switch guns if you're so good."

They didn't.

“I don't need to, I already know I am.”

"We can bet then? Whoever kills him gets the Gibraltar's Tech."

Flatline girl’s laugh echoed, “You’re on.”

Two sets of footsteps were almost on Mirage by the time he finished his cell. He won't win, not if he took them at the same time. So before they can reach him, he sent a decoy away and triggered his ultimate. The two gave a surprise jolt and Flatline and Havoc bullets sprayed everywhere...but it didn't trick anyone, he discovered from the way they both let out a disparaging laugh. They were _humoring_ him. Mirage would be very insulted, but Elliott knew to stay focused.

He took advantage of the distraction and the few seconds his cloak, quietly moving behind the woman who was carelessly walking with her guard down. Her mistake.

“Now, where is Mir—" In a quick spring, the Trickster ensnared his arm around the woman's neck, yanking her backwards and stealing the balance away from her body. He kicked out her legs when she tried to regain her stability and her hands flew to slap his arm, " _Brent!_ ”

Flatline girl dropped her weapon, doubling her efforts at slapping and scratching his arm, face, side, whimpering at his tightening choke hold.

“Let her go.” Blue hair Brent’s eyes widened and then he’s baring his teeth at him. "Now."

Ah, yeah, they're not on the same team.

If this was any other game, Mirage would play along. He’s a natural showman, the comic relief. Right about now, he’d crack a joke or let her go or quip a snarky remark about their love lives. The fans loved it when he does that, when he doesn’t take it seriously, because none of them will actually die from this. 

Within hours he’ll get to see Wraith and Gibraltar alive again, but that didn’t make the situation any better.

“Let her go now. Before I—”

Mirage open fired first, breaking his blue shield a second time. The man jumped to the side, aiming his havoc, but the Trickster simply dragged the woman as a meat cover and let him decide whether or not to shoot his friend. There's visible hesitation where his enemy dropped and reprimed his Havoc, and those few seconds was all it took for him to get a clean shot to the chest. Brent cried out, clutching the wound and wheezing from what surely led to a punctured lung. He extended his palm forward as if to reach for them, and Mirage shot the woman in the head, once, twice, making sure she was dead before pushing her away from him and planting a final bullet on the Blue hair man.

“What the fuck was that!” Fortessa’s voice screeched from above the Refinery. She fired her Longbow from the rooftop, and the Trickster felt his shield hold on and shatter at the impact, pushing him a step backward. He met her wild eyes with the detachment in his own, opting to the infrastructure because as much as he wanted her dead, his friends only had fifty seconds before they timed out.

Escape, retrieve the banners. 

_Survive._

“He went inside! He’s going to get the banners, Grent can you hear me? Where the hell are you?”

The Trickster charged cells on his way, careful to keep in shades. His shields were full by the time he pushed the door open and aimed at the slaughter room. It was pin-drop silent, up to the moment he met RE-45 girl’s eyes widening at the sight of him. The two of them stared at each other, and the scene finally sank into his brain.

She’s looting Wraith.

Wraith, who was siting in the pool of her own blood slumped against the wall, her right arm barely sticking by her skin and the sleeve on her left was ripped, empty, and she’s—and her tech's—

“Don’t move!” RE-45 girl shouted, raising Wraith’s Alternator against him with that stupid fucking Arc Star charm he never thought she would use hanging from the side. He gave that. That was hers. “Grent, he’s here! He’s here!”

She opened fire at him, and Mirage ignored the singeing against his shield, firing three leveled bullets of his own. She's the first one to flinch, pressing a hand to her stomach while she reloaded, and he aimed for the final headshot. She knew what she did, that's why there was terror and fear in her eyes, why she looked like she was seconds from begging him to let her go. 

“Tris?”

RE-45 girl groaned in pain, and it made the Debilitator freeze at between the two of them in confusion, until he raised his pistol and shot her friend, sending RE-45's head bouncing into the flooring with a hard thump.

" _Patricia!_ "

Escape, retrieve the banners—

Fortessa opened fire with her Wingman, and the Trickster ducked away to the corner, almost tripping over Gibraltar’s body sprawled on the floor. The sight of the Fortress left a knot forming in his throat. He knew what happened but it was different to see the aftermath. His chest, neck and head were blasted open, his remaining, undamaged eye rolled unnaturally at the ceiling.

Bile rose at the back of his throat. He timed out. Mirage turned to Wraith and she timed out too.

What does he do now? Should he just throw the Game to get this over with? There was no way he'd win by himself after all, so at least it would be easier if he—if it's—if he died? At least then, this nightmare is over and he can wake up and Wraith and Gibraltar would be...no.

"You are going to pay for that, you fuck." The Debilitator's voice was shaking, walking further into the room.

No, no, no.

He had to survive. 

The Trickster inhaled, held his breath and exhaled, gathering his remaining resolve, cementing his objectives.

Survive and kill them all.

"You motherf—"

Mirage surprised her with a bullet to the face, singeing the hardlight on her blue helmet and her purple shield. She gasped, drawing her stun dart. The Trickster surged towards her, pushing the dart away from him and twisted her Wingman off her grasp. The Debilitator chose her tactical over the pistol, and both of them distantly heard the weapon clunk into the floor. She used her whole weight to send a fist to his face. It hit the side of his head twice between his ear and cheekbone, ringing his senses when it hit the third time. Didn't matter. He shoved his pistol to her stomach and watched in delight as her eyes widened in panic. She tried pulling herself away.

_Tried._

The Trickster pulled the trigger, firing two, four bullets into her stomach. 

Fortessa let out a loud whine and he'd have finished her then and there, until their altercation was cut off at a rage-fueled scream coming from the inside of the Refinery. 

Grent came barreling towards him, shoving him past the double doors and into the snow.

He crashed on his back to the ground. Pain emanated from the back of his head from the impact, and he groaned, spitting out a mouthful of blood. Mirage woozily pointed the Wingman but Scruffy Beard was quick to slam it away with Gibraltar's unopened shield. The weapon soared several spaces from them. It's the light flashing against the equipment that turned his eyes livid at the recognition. His enemy reared back to finish him off and _fuck no_.

Mirage yanked the first thing he grasped in his bag. He slammed the purple shotgun bolt into the Grents face as hard as he could, and his opponent's head whipped back. With his arm and feet, he shoved the man backward and slammed the bolt into his face again, chipping a few of his teeth.

The Trickster pushed himself to his feet, swaying for several steps before snatching the Wingman and catching his balance. With a growl, Grent wiped half his face and rolled his shoulders. _Melee then_. Mirage's the first one to throw a punch. They exchanged blows, bruising hits and bone-shattering strikes. He felt his cheekbone crack, a rib or two, his jaw. He dished the same amount of damage against his opponent, except when Grent tried to clinch him, he shoved his Wingman at his side and fired three bullets.

Scruffy Beard sprang away, his boots sliding against snow as he drew his Peacekeeper.

"Fucking cheater." He spat. The shotgun lined up to his head, and part of the Trickster was raging against meeting death.

All of a sudden, Grent's eyes widened and he froze.

Fortessa's dart hit him at the side of his neck. They both turned to the shaking woman by the door, and he watched the apologetic stare melt back into fury. She raised her Wingman, the entirety of her white pea coat drenched in blood. Her left hand waved Wraith's Phase Tech in the air as if in surrender, and she threw it at the space between them, embedding half into the snow.

"Take the damn tech and step away from Grent." She threatened, "I mean it. I'm gonna shoot."

Was that supposed to placate him?

Because it didn't.

Because he returned the glare with a furious look of his own, sneering, "Then shoot."

Before she can decide, Mirage sent a decoy and activated his ultimate. In the chaos, the Debilitator hit his decoys, but landed a shot that pierced his right clavicle. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the explosion of pain shooting from his chest to his arm and the rest of his torso. _Survive, Elliott_. He swiped the Peacekeeper near Grent's body on the ground and turned the shotgun at Fortessa. 

He blasted her leg without pomp, driving her to scream and limp around with her other foot. The Trickster twisted on his spot to Scruffy Beard, standing over him with his own weapon. Grent was seething, but Mirage knew from the look in his eyes he was ready to die. He fired, decimating his neck and chest into the snow; then he remembered Gibraltar and he cocked the shotgun back again, and blew out his head.

The death and its brutality broke Fortessa's voice into the air, at him.

**Attention, there is a new Kill Leader.**

He turned back to her, watching her collapse to the ground and grasp at her leg sticking by flimsy piece of skin. Her voice slipped into hysteria at the sight of it ripping off, at the sight of Grent, at the reality of their dead friends. Within seconds, she's hyperventilating and going into shock. 

This was the part of the Apex Games nobody discussed.

It was always glorious in the aftermath, on red carpets waving to fans. The wounds are healed then, the loss of limbs, of fingers, an ear or two, it's regenerated. To them, the blood sport is unreal, a fantasy land where brutality is rewarded and the murderer leaves revered. They show high-octane maneuvers, 500-meter shots, outwitting a squad, outmatching geared opponents, but they conveniently gloss over what happen to the dead bodies. Nobody wants to see that. 

Mirage holstered the Peacekeeper and drew the Wingman. It would be hypocritical to say he found it abhorrent when he has been participating in it for years. He tossed the used chamber into his palm, reloading a fresh set of ammo, and snapped the pistol shut.

But he does wonder what he’d do if this sort of situation happened outside of the Games. If he and the people he cared for were jumped because of some social media dare, their past or for pure revenge. He hoped for their sake they make sure to kill him first, because he knew he's ready to search every nook and cranny of the galaxy just for revenge. He’d carry it for the rest of his life, the same way he’s still looking for his brothers.

Snow crunched underneath his feet, and from a distant he heard a sniper shot echo from above the Epicenter's hills and hit his decoy.

“Please,” Fortessa whispered ghastly, “mercy.”

"This _is_ mercy."

He raised his Wingman, aiming it at the woman’s forehead and squeezed the trigger, shattering her skull and spattering brain matter into snow.

* * *

Once in his life, he had a team mate that asked him why he’s in this industry when he can’t take loses. He can take loses. He’s been taking it his whole life. He lost his father when he was young, he lost his brothers in the Frontier War, and he’s slowly losing his mother to dementia. He usually just laughs it off. It wasn't something that needed to be addressed. Elliott had spent three decades learning how to compartamentalize his own grief and he's doing fine on his own.

If there's anything he can't take, it was the Bar's techno beat.

Mirage resisted the urge to massage his temples _again,_ smiling at Josie—Josephine? Jocelyn?—who was congratulating him for his latest win. Her two friends kept the conversation rolling whenever it slowed, which was why the four of them had been talking for close to twenty minutes now. Usually he didn't mind, especially when he's mixing drinks.

Except tonight really wasn't the best time.

The discussion about cocktails and mocktails were cut off when a familiar face slid into the bar seat several spaces away from them. He saw the trio's eyes narrow at first and then widen at recognition. They bid a quick goodbye, conspicuously leaving a list of numbers underneath a drink coaster. He was still debating what to do with the paper when the newcomer spoke.

"Hey."

It's Wraith, looking extremely casual in dark knitted jumper and cherry red lipstick. There's tinge on her cheeks that told him she already had a few drinks on her own.

"Hey yourself. The usual?” 

“Yeah.”

Mirage turned to the Bar Wall, setting up vodka, apple schnapps, and Calvados imported from Demeter. Sometimes, she preferred her appletini with sour apple liqueur and lemon, other times with dry vermouth and two shots of vodka. When he was done, he poured the mix into a chilled cocktail glass and finished the garnish, offering the drink towards her.

“Here.”

“Thanks.” The Skirmisher went immediately for the garnish, catching the apple slices between her teeth and crunching on it. She's a chipper drunk, though he knew for a fact she didn't do it often because the Voices were louder, the headaches were worse, and she gets twice as grumpy in the morning.

“So," He began, "you’re dressed up.”

"Don't." Her cheeks darkened for whatever reason. "It's Wattson and Lifeline.”

Mirage raised an eyebrow. Seems interesting, if she had that apprehensive look on her face. “Juicy gossip?” 

"Sort of." The Skirmisher gave him a look. "You _know_."

“Hm.” He rubbed his beard, looking at the throng of people on the general area of the bar. Some of them were dancing to what thankfully, finally, moved into Electro Swing. Not the biggest fan, but the beats were softer. Wattson and Lifeline. Wattson or Lifeline? Wattson and, wait. Not Lifeline. He was the one that told her an observation some weeks ago, and it clicked. " _Oh_."

"Yes, oh." She echoed, “Apparently, Lifeline laughed at her thinking she was joking about Octane, so Wattson called me instead.”

“Since when have you been a love expert?”

Wraith shrugged, “I know a thing or two.”

“Like what?”

“Always wear protection during sex.”

He snorted a sudden laugh at the response. It seemed to be the reaction she was aiming for, her lips quirking into a smile she hid by taking a sip. She glanced at a particular booth, and that's how he noticed Wattson, Lifeline, Octane, Path, Gibraltar, and Bangalore were in the bar too. An employee served them another round, and they're having an intense discussion, if the Medic's eye roll at the Soldier was anything to go by. Wattson raised her palm in a placating gesture.

“I think she's too nice to tell me I'm not much of a help so we ended up reaching out to Gibraltar," She crinkled her nose, lowering the glass. "who for some reason contacted Lifeline and Bangalore."

He winced. "That can't be good. What happened?"

"They spent a solid minute laughing at the two of us and sat us down for sex ed." She shuddered, " _Sex ed_. I think I'm old enough to know how penises work."

Mirage laughed outright at the mental image and her choice of words. “Holy shit. That’s—holy shit.” He grinned, "I'd pay to see that."

"Count yourself lucky you didn't. Bangalore had charts." She said, glancing at her glass. "I think I'm going to need a harder drink."

He waggled his eyebrows, "You could have asked me instead."

“You?” She snorted, “I’ve seen you flirt.” She waited until they were looking eye to eye, “No comment.”

"Hey now," He said in a playful warning voice, "I can charm the pants off anyone I want."

She tilted her head, giving him a challenging look, "Really?"

He thought about crossing the line of friendly banter and outright flirting, to prove a point and maybe test the water _but._

But she leaned her arm on the Bar top and he saw her Phase Tech equipped, and he froze at the sight of it. The memory of Gibraltar, Fortessa, Grent, the Refinery, and the rest of the game bled into the front of his mind. For a moment he swore he was back there, with the smell of smoke, pungent copper and burning flesh, and she's among the bodies he left when the ring started closing. He's _there._ Then he felt finger tips catch the side of his hand and he's back to the present.

In the bar. Surrounded by people. With that damn Techno beat again.

"Mirage?"

He jolted backward, rubbing his cheek awkwardly.

"Sorry."

Wraith pressed her lips together and turned her gaze back to the patrons, "You want to talk about it?”

“Do I have to?”

She took another sip of her martini. “Not really.” 

They're quiet for a long while. He cares about her, a little more than he cares about the rest of their group and he knows he's screwed. He knows he's going to have to watch her die over and over again in the future, because there's no way something like this won't ever happen again, and no way any of them will ever give up this lifestyle sometime in the near future. Suddenly, he's glad she wasn't looking at him anymore, because he can't seem to take his eyes off her. 

“Path and I died in front of you once, the first time we queued together. Did you feel like this?”

“Honestly? No. But that was a long time ago. I didn’t care about you then.”

“And if it happened now?”

“Would have done exactly what you did. Except,” She glanced back at him and tipped her drink. “I think I would have died a lot sooner."

He snorted, “Yeah, right.”

“Thirty-seven kills.” She said in a playfully droll voice, “That’s a record contender.”

Mirage looked down on the ragged edges of his fingernails, the blunt shape yesterday covered in dirt and blood. He didn’t notice at the time. He really wasn’t counting. The entirety of it, all he had in his head was survive and kill and outlive the squads that came and he encountered to the Refinery, the Epicenter, the Capitol, the Train Yard. Until now, the kill count didn't feel like it was worth anything. It was one behind Wraith and four behind Path, and that was still good but he would have, once upon a time, dreamed of the press and the glory, and the attention he's getting. 

Maybe in the future, when he was over what happened to his squad mates, he could brag about it.

All of a sudden, a chair crashed, and cheers rose in the bar. He and Wraith glanced at each other before turning to the source of it, to Wattson cupping an unfamiliar man's face. They're entwined several steps away from the booth. _What about Octane?_ was his first thought. He never would have guessed who the person was if it wasn't for the mask in his hand. The Daredevil closed eyes and kissed the Defender back, catching her waist and hips. Lifeline whistled with two of her fingers, Gibraltar roared a hurray, and Bangalore and Path clapped along the crowd.

Mirage turned to the Skirmisher, “What exactly did you tell her?”

“I told her if she really likes him," She shrugged, "go for it.”

"Oh, they're really going for it."

Octane bent Wattson back and initiated the kiss the second time, raising another bout of hooting across the bar. It was sweet and maybe getting a little too dirty, and wasn't...anyone...going to tell them to get a room? 'Cause he has a lot upstairs. Wait, never mind. The Daredevil broke off and hoisted the Defender in his arms, lost in their own world. The sea of people parted to make way for two Legends heading to the main exit. Honestly, damn. He didn't think either of the two had it in them

The sound of the Skirmisher's chuckle brought his attention back to her.

"Come on."

"What?"

"You need to loosen up."

"That's rich coming from you."

"I know." Her lips quirked, "You can brood some other time."

Mirage opened his mouth to protest because, hey, he was _not_ the brooder around here, she is, and Wraith was waiting for it, for a reaction that told her he was in the moment with her. As if he didn't know caring about her too much was a bad idea, she had to go and make him _feel_ things.

"Well?"

He rolled his eyes playfully, muttering, "Fine."

"Good." She pushed away from the bar top and waited until he got Stephen, an employee, to cover for him. 

In the end while they're walking, she catches his wrist with her bare hand for just a few seconds, and she's the one that unsubtly talks about feeling warm. He understands the meaning of the gesture and appreciates it, and while he knew the memory is seared into his nightmares, for now, it is more than enough to push the thoughts away.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! :)♡
> 
> this was inspired by TLOU2 (i was still reeling from the game when i wrote this lol), a post on twitter by Tom Casiello about Mirage drafted as taking a lil more of a villanous role (which i unfortunately cant find so idk if just day dreamed that), and John Wick. i've been editing this for days. i figured i'm gonna keep finding something wrong the longer i hold on to this so i'm letting it go


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